Screamers and Tail Pipe Sodomites at Pink Place.

“Good God! What the hell is this place?”

Jay Walker

This assignment was not one to take lightly, so some preparation was necessary. My business associate, John Studd, had prepared assiduously, as he was already three sheets to the wind by 10 a.m., and myself by noon that day. Doors were not ready to open until 6:30 p.m., however, and this meant we would spend that time getting into the right headspace for relaying information. This often required ludicrous amounts of Chivas Regal, Budweiser, caffeine, crushed-up uppers, as well as a serious foray into reefer mania.

Afterall, it is important to note that nearly everything we did was in the name of journalism. For in the land of stars and stripes, street-toughs like us work hard, and remain poor.

On the way to the venue, we barreled down 280, the two of us spending longer than was legally advisable screaming like propane-huffing junkies out of the truck window at some brainless, rightwing phlegm- wad whose truck was wrapped in Trump flags.

Cowboy hats filled the scene at Pink Place, a local house show venue, and I was no different. Some gold-toothed greed-head in the dense crowd tried to snag the lucky cig from the hat band of my oversized cowboy hat.

I began to hiss at him, waving my ‘battle-swatter’ his way. It was athis neon green fly swatter fixed to my belt, covered in various pins and buttons. The damn thing was intended to shoo away Republicans anyhow, and it usually worked.

As one pin read out, “I belong in a zoo!”

RiGBY, a blossoming presence in the local punk scene, was first on stage. Their sound rang to me as bittersweet and overall quite catchy. The vocalist, Maude, had asked the platoon of circus freaks their thoughts on that nepo-sludge with a 40 billion dollar echo chamber play toy, Elon Musk. In response, the entire crowd began shrieking in tongues and breaking out into hives. One of these fucking things even slithered around, almost wrapping itself across the tops of my Senator skins (snakeskin cowboy boots).

“Good God! What the hell is this place?” I screamed aloud as I was hardly able to walk, nearly falling over a few times.

Partway through Rigby’s set, my personal pick for head of the ATF and good friend, John, left due to a blurry combination of factors such as post traumatic stress disorder and a desire for more Miller Lites.

The second group, Matcha Fever, which I had only been drunkenly aware was performing, had a wide sample of noise, which ranged from smoother and kinder tones to energetic, captivating rhythms. I was too busy having an existential crisis and a break from the manic episode to pay much mind to the sounds coming from the stage. I chalked my mental funk up to me being scared shitless, dickless, and titless about the election. 

Then Oyster Boy was up. They were auditory heroin, and I enjoyed a blissful ecstasy hearing them play. During their set, the vocalist insulted Donald Trump, which was met with resounding applause and cheers.

After smoking again, I returned to the show, but perhaps that wasn’t for the best. I bumped into some guy I knew through John, and I ended up holding his bag of rocks while he thrashed around like a cocaine-fueled gimp in the mosh pit, which reeked like a petting zoo.

On the way out, some masked lunatics, likely from the venue I had just left, were chasing each other through the streets. My Lyft driver, shaken by the ordeal, said something to me like, “We are going to see more of this if Trump’s elected, you know what I mean, bro?” 

“Are we hurtling towards political doom?” I thought to myself. Like Beetlejuice, that name Trump has appeared three times tonight, like a vicious omen of the hell that is to come in the following weeks.

Perhaps I’m just on edge in general as I was violated at the bar last week by some gumless fiend, so I have since been keeping a stainless steel wine cork on me in case any more of these cheatin’ snakes decide to get squirrely again.

Jay Walker, 

Living On The Threshold of Madness… Over and Out.